


every day's a holiday with you

by perennial



Category: Folklore - Fandom, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Christmas AU, F/M, Merry Christmas!, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5361125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial/pseuds/perennial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There wasn’t always a Mrs. Claus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> {[title song/TIFFANY & CO./THE MOST ADORABLE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YLCcnpUcVY)}
> 
> This is NOT a May/December romance (although the fact that it’s a Persephone/Santa AU means that it TECHNICALLY IS, GET IT. But in terms of May/December romance according to what the phrase actually means, it is NOT). Just be patient and trust me.

The man in red says, “Oh, no. No no no.”

“It’s rather too late for that, don’t you think?” counters the stowaway.

“No!”

“I just want a tour.”

“ _No_. Get back in the sleigh, young lady. I’m taking you home.”

“You and I both know the reindeer are done in. They can’t fly another mile tonight, let alone all the way to San Francisco.”

He huffs, “Thank you, reindeer expert. I’ll be the judge of—”

“How do you get hay all the way up here? Do you import it, or do you have some sort of super-solar powered mega-greenhouse?” She is wandering around the sleigh, looking around like a baby bird that has just discovered a world outside its nest.

The pleasant smell of fresh hay and cedar fills the air. The elves who man the stables have already taken their charges to their individual stalls, above which hang gold plates engraved with the names Dancer, Dasher, Blitzen, and so forth. From within come contented munching sounds as the reindeer are brushed down and fed cinnamon oats. The elves whistle ‘Jingle Bells’ while they work, and their boss was trilling along with the chorus before he found an uninvited guest wedged in the back corner of the sleigh, hiding beneath the empty red velvet bag that is as big as a tent. She is shivering and elated.

“I’m Holly,” she says, holding out her hand; he automatically shakes it. “It’s so incredibly wonderful to meet you. Should I call you Santa or Mr. Claus?”

“Well, now. Everyone else calls me—”

“Where does this door lead?”

“Wait!” he says, and she swings the door open.

For a moment she stops breathing; tears prick her eyes. Before her is the most beautiful room she has ever beheld.

As a child her favorite place on earth was a gigantic FAO Schwartz that seemed, to her miniature frame, to go up and up and up forever, its chandelier shining benediction down on the escalators that would transport her from one level of dreamworld to the next. She feels as though she has returned, only (in reverse fashion of adulthood) to find it brighter and taller and more colorful. Santa’s Workshop is breathtaking: an explosion of color, brightly lit with white and golden lights, multiple stories high, scarlet and cherrywood and scrollwork everywhere. Everything sparkles and shines. In the very center is a Christmas tree the size of a small mountain. The air smells like peppermint and balsam.

Elves are partying wherever she looks—dancing to holiday jazz, drinking eggnog, smiling as though they’re actually enjoying a Christmas party. They look up, eager and expectant, and at the sight of her they freeze.

“Merry Christmas, everyone!” he roars from behind her. “Uh, could someone tell Alphonse we’ve had a major security breach?”

“Hi,” she says brightly. “I’m Holly. Merry Christmas!” She turns to Santa, her eyes huge and excited, and mouths _WOW!_

He tries not to chuckle and only ends up sounding like he’s being strangled. He harrumphs to cover it up (rather dramatic, that, think the partygoers; everyone knows he is as soft as a plush toy) but it does not matter: she is transfixed by the workshop, and has forgotten he is standing there.

An elf scurries up to them. “Turn that off,” he snaps at someone, and ‘Have a Holly Jolly Christmas’ cuts off with a screech. “Don’t move,” the elf tells Holly. He turns narrowed eyes on Santa Claus. “Nick, we’ve talked about this.”

“I really tried.”

“Turn right back around,” Alphonse tells Holly. “You’re leaving immediately.”

She beseeches Santa. “Listen. I haven’t believed in you since I was five years old. Magic didn’t exist until a few hours ago when I stumbled across it invading my living room. This is all so amazing I can hardly find the words for it. Don’t make me leave yet. Please.”

He wavers.

Alphonse is pointedly shaking his head at his boss.

“But she’s so happy,” Santa tells him. He looks uncertainly back and forth between pleading brown eyes and stern gray ones. The crowd watches, breathless, to see whether head or heart will win out.

Finally, he caves to his own nature.

“Miss Holly, we would be delighted to have you as our Christmas guest.” He gives her a full bow, bent at the waist and arm extended, and smiles at her over round cheeks with eyes that twinkle from under bushy white brows. The elves cheer, minus one.

“Oh, thank you!” she cries, and throws her arms around him to press a kiss to his warm red cheek. The music starts again, chatter fills the air, and a cup of eggnog is put into Holly’s hands.

Santa, returned to his jolly self now that trouble has been averted, makes the rounds, congratulating everyone on a job well done. His booming laugh can be heard throughout the entire atrium, even over the voices and music. He stands a good three feet taller than the elves, his white beard glowing like fresh snow about to cascade down onto them.

Holly seems bound and determined to meet every elf in the room. She is introduced to master toymakers and novices, bakers and tailors, technicians and gardeners (it turns out they do grow their own hay), reindeer grooms, carpenters, and confectioners. She avoids the security team.

After a little while she spies Santa leaving, using the main entrance this time instead of the stable door, and she hurries to catch him. A blast of cold air hits her in the face, and he takes a moment to grab one of the red coats that hang by the entry and drape it around her shoulders. He pauses, then grabs a scarf as well, and wraps it around her bare neck to cover what her bobbed hair cannot.

They step outside and a smile spreads across her face. The pine trees along the path are strung with white lights and gold ribbons and shining ornaments. Garlands are wrapped around light posts bedecked with huge red bows. The village is a small cluster of light and warmth, wreaths on every elf-sized door, colored lights rimming every window square. A few elves are out, calling cheerful greeting to Santa as he passes, whistling Christmas songs as they go about their business. The snow is turned silver in the moonlight.

“What now?” Holly asks, falling into step beside Santa. She looks longingly at his black snowboots; she cannot feel her toes. When she stowed away she had not exactly registered the full meaning of _North Pole_. Still, it is North Pole snow crunching under her feet, North Pole air freezing her lungs. She wouldn’t be warm for anything, if it meant somewhere else.

“What now what?”

“How do you spend Christmas? Do you kick back, play board games all day like my family does? Is there a church service or something? Are you a workaholic? Do you start preparing for next year’s Christmas immediately, like in that movie?”

“I sleep. I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours. And then I wake up, and I take a nap on the couch. And after supper I doze by the fire.”

“Okay,” she says cautiously. Far be it from her to tell Santa Claus how to celebrate the holidays. “So when are the reindeer games?”

“Christmas evening, after the team has rested. The agenda is somewhere in my kitchen.”

His home is beautiful, of course. The exterior is a perfect oversized gingerbread house. The inside is small and cozy, with plush rugs thrown across the floor and a cheerful fire burning. It smells like cedar and cinnamon. She is transfixed by his dining chairs, which all boast unique decorative carvings themed around arctic animals.

“We have a magnificent carpentry division. Their skills used to be in higher demand, but these days they’re able to spend some time on more complex work.” He finds the agenda.

“Do you live alone?” she asks from the artic fox chair. “No wife or roommates or kids or pets or anything?”

“Well, the reindeer aren’t lapdogs, but I suppose you could call them pets. And the elves troop in and out of here like they own the place. But technically, yes, I live alone.”

“This itinerary includes naps,” she comments.

“A crucial part of the day, we’ve learned, if you intend to make it to the end,” he says from inside the refrigerator. He straightens and places a jug of milk on the table next to a plate of peanut butter cookies. The smell of them alone makes her mouth water.

“Aren’t you having any?” she asks as she inhales two. There are a few times in life when one throws all thoughts of calories to the four winds, and one of those times is when Santa Claus hands you a cookie baked in the North Pole.

“I’ve eaten enough cookies today to last me a year. Now, missy, it is almost five in the morning. I recommend you do as the itinerary says and rest a bit.”

He makes up the couch for her to sleep on. The pillow is like touching a cloud. The sheets are softer than kitten fur. She hugs the blanket to her chest and watches him putter around the room. He stokes the fire, blows out the candles, dims the lights on the Christmas tree.

He looks at her. “You’re too excited to sleep, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty wired.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let me show you this one thing.”

*

The room is the size of an IMAX theater, except that the screen covers every inch of the wall—which has no corners, the room being circular. The entire world stretches out on the screen before them. Holly feels as though she is about to be given the weather report.

“This is where I monitor the Naughty and Nice lists.” Santa goes to a control panel in the center of the room and fiddles with a few buttons. She watches the world grow closer, and closer, until they are hovering above a nothing but a blur of blue. He zooms in closer, and she watches the approach of a chain of islands, then the green mountains of Oahu, then an apartment near the coast in Honolulu. Inside, a boy and a girl shriek with glee as they unwrap sidewalk chalk and a pink skateboard. Their parents clutch coffee cups and smile blearily. Santa chortles— _ho, ho, ho,_ the quiet laugh of a man who is thoroughly pleased. It takes Holly a moment to realize she has actually heard it, and then she wants to play it back on repeat. She immediately starts trying to think of a way to make him do it again, and almost doesn’t hear his next words.

“That’s one way to do it,” he is saying. “The other way is to simply search for a name, like this.” He types rapidly—and suddenly she is on the screen, her dark eyes wide and startled, her face multiplied into infinity on the screen(s) behind her.

“This has to be violating so many privacy laws,” she murmurs.

He shakes a finger at her. “I’m no voyeur. Besides, things are different when you’re me. Did you know I can’t be arrested for trespassing? Not that many have tried. Just in case, though, it is a universal law.”

“As in, it’s been signed into being?”

“Exactly. Not that that’s highly advertised, however.”

“I should have guessed that Heads of State across the world know you exist. Have any of them been here?”

“Two whom I particularly liked. They were on the Nice list for the entirety of their time in power. I was very proud.”

“So how do you check them?” she asks, meaning the Lists. He points to a table across the way, upon which a tome the size of Texas rests. Looking closer, she discovers that all the names in it are handwritten.

She waves her arm at the room. “All this and you keep a hard copy?”

“Hard copy and only copy. If you knew how many computer geniuses are on the Naughty list, you’d do the same.”

She rifles through the pages until she finds her name. It should not surprise her that what is printed beneath it does not match the wish list she gave her family—she is standing across the room from Santa Claus, after all—but it is still a bit breathtaking, seeing as she has hardly verbalized these wishes even to herself.

> _-plane ticket to visit mother (see: Wheatley, Ivy)_  
>  _-family farm mortgage paid off before bank forecloses on loans_  
>  _-light therapy device for winter blues_

He says, “Ah, now, this is what I wanted to see.”

She looks at the screen. A panic-stricken man in army fatigues runs down a hospital corridor; he is sweating and looks close to tears. Holly glances nervously at Santa; he looks on, smiling. The man bursts into a room where his panic-stricken, very pregnant wife is counting breaths from her hospital bed. He is just in time for the birth of his twin daughters.

Holly stares at Santa. “How did you do that?”

“I didn’t say I did. I just said I wanted to see it.”

She eyes him. “I don’t entirely believe you.”

He smiles. “I can’t lie, you know.” He gestures to the quill on a stand next to her. “Blemont, Isabella and Jeanette. The Nice list, of course.”

“ _Me?_ ”

His eyes twinkle. “Unless you’d rather not.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I would!”

The words in the book shift as she begins to write, leaving the perfect amount of space for the two new names she adds. Her combination cursive-print clashes with the elegant script filling the rest of the book, like her own small flag marking this moment: _Holly was here._ But even more, shouting from the page: _Two new lives! Two whole new lives! Two brand new intricate brains and sets of cells and personalities and perspectives and the days they will live stretching out before them have come to join us here. Welcome to our world, on this day of hope._ She runs a light finger over the letters once they have dried, wondering what words will be listed beneath them next year and all the years following.

She looks back up at the screen. It has been reset to show the entire globe. “The whole world. How do you do it?”

“Christmas Eve is actually a very long night when you’re following the sun. Also, I have extremely organized assistants. Not to mention the innovation team: when Della invented GPS it shaved off a whole 23 minutes!”

“You guys invented GPS?”

He chortles. “Of course! Not the version you’d use, though. Mine finds people instead of addresses.”

“Good thing you’re incapable of corruption.” She yawns.

The night is crystal clear when they emerge back into open air. “Perfect sledding conditions,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “There are races later this evening. I have a three-year winning streak to defend.”

“We’ll see about that.” She yawns again. He smiles, guiding her back onto the path toward the cottage, instead of the reindeer barn she was making for like a homing pigeon with its destination in sight.

She falls onto the couch and is asleep within two breaths.


	2. Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not a strictly secular fic but any religious references are sparse, surface-level, and contained to this chapter.

Holly is perched in the narwhal chair when Santa walks into the kitchen. She pushes a mug of whipped cream-topped hot chocolate across the table. Hers is already half-empty.

“Good morning! Merry Christmas!” she says brightly. She is so excited she wriggles in her chair, like a toddler. It has been a long time since she has looked forward to anything as much as she is looking forward to this day.

“Merry Christmas!” he booms, and adds a thank you for the drink. She glows, as well she might. It is no small thing to be wished Merry Christmas by Santa Claus on Christmas morning.

“What first?” she asks. The agenda is not one straightforward list; it caters to every preference, from early risers to night owls, old to young, energetic to less-so.

“Breakfast, of course!”

“By the way, I think your clock is broken,” she tells him. “It says almost eight o’clock, but the sun hasn’t even begun to rise.”

“On the contrary, my dear. It isn’t broken.” He reminds her they are at the North Pole. “There is no sun.”

“What? _Never?_ ”

“Not for eighty-four more days, until the spring solstice.”

“You’re serious.”

“I don’t joke about the spring solstice.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“Does it?”

“Months in the freezing darkness without reprieve? It’s a wonder you all haven’t lost your minds. California exists for a reason, you know.”

“Let’s just say it was a good thing when electricity was invented. But you get used to it. It rains three days a week in Seattle, and people still choose to live there. Humans are more adaptable than they realize.”

“I don’t think it would be hard to get used to this,” she says, looking around. She tips her head, looks at him. “Do you ever get tired of it? Wish you could have a break from Christmas every day?”

“You,” he says, “have clearly never experienced a Christmas as it should be. There is no getting tired of Christmas as it should be – there is only wanting it to go on forever. And that is what happens here.”

She grins at him. “You have hot chocolate in your moustache.”

He winks at her. “So do you.” She wipes off her upper lip in a hurry.

Bundled up in the red coat and scarf from the night before, with the addition of earmuffs, insulated gloves, heavy wool socks, and snowboots that were pulled from Santa’s bag due to the intended recipient’s last minute Nice-Naughty switch, Holly is ready to venture back into the white world outside. She beams up at her host.

He twinkles down at her. “Ready?”

*

 **CHRISTMAS DAY AGENDA**  
_Please contact Bernadette in Operations regarding any schedule adjustments._  
_See reverse for map of First Aid locations._

~

**Alternate Activities:**

  * Board games will be set up at all times by the tree in the Workshop.
  * Sledding will be overseen on Watterson Hill from 6:00 AM – 4:30 PM, with the exception of the sled races at 10:00 AM.
  * Schulz Pond will be open for ice skating from 6:00 AM – 4:30 PM.
  * Mt. Geisel will be open for snowboarding and skiing from 6:00 AM - 4:30 PM.
  * The half pipe will be open from 6:00 AM - 4:30 PM.
  * Christmas movies will be playing all day in both the Workshop A/V Center and over the main fireplace. See reverse for full schedule.



~

**7:00 AM 10k Rudolph Run***

**8:00 AM 5k Tannenbaum Trot***

_*Runners depart from the Workshop; course ends at the Reindeer Barn._  
_Anyone who starts a snowball fight on the course will be disqualified. Thank you for your compliance._

**6:30—9:00 AM Breakfast served in the Workshop**

**9:00 AM Gift Exchange by the Workshop Pine**

The workshop is seething with elves. The party that Holly crashed a few hours ago (the Jingle Bell Bash, they explain, their annual Christmas Eve/Midnight changeover party) seems to have flowed into Christmas morning, with the addition of bagels.

“Merry Christmas!” she cries.

“Merry Christmas!” they chorus. There is a wide smile on every face. If they are surprised to see their boss up and about, they don’t show it.

The floor is littered with wrapping paper and ribbons. Evidently the elves are just as eager to open presents as children. Holly settles into her seat with a cinnamon roll and a cup of peppermint tea to watch the rest of the gift exchange. From what she can tell, the elves don’t want for anything—they play with toys all day, don’t they?—and as a result, their gifts are simple, handmade, and personal: a bell that rings someone’s favorite musical note; shoes that are an exact fit; an original story containing all of the recipient’s favorite literary elements.

Santa, sitting beside her with a plate full of peppermint cookies and another mug of hot chocolate, sees Alphonse across the room and looks worried. “Won’t your family be wondering where you are today?”

“I texted my mom when we were flying over Sonoma. ‘Something came up, I’ll be out of pocket tomorrow’—along those lines. I wasn’t going home this year anyway.”

He gives her a strange look. “You aren’t even going to call them?”

She reminds him they are in the North Pole.

He snorts. “Come on now. I’m Santa Claus, aren’t I? I have phone reception.”

Of course he does. “In that case, I’ll do it this afternoon.”

He unwraps a pair of peppermint-striped Converse and chortles a thank you at the giver. To Holly: “What is Christmas like at your house?”

She smiles. “Crowded. Noisy. I have a big family.—I guess you know that.”

“I may have a list of the desires of your heart, Holly, but I’m not omniscient. Tell me about your family.”

“It’s all on my mom’s side. I don’t have any siblings but I have an endless supply of cousins.” She tells him about winters at the farm, snow up to her knees, snowball fights ranging over three acres, sharing blankets and hot cider around the fireplace while her mother plays the piano. He listens, smiling, until she takes another sip of tea and realizes her cup is empty. He winks at her and stands up.

The gifts are all open; the mess of wrapping paper and ribbons has already vanished. The elves settle into silence and look at Santa expectantly.

“It is a very good morning!” he shouts, and the room cheers. “Long ago the world was broken, but Christmas means the repairs have started. Today we celebrate that good news. Our hearts are light and our souls are joyful. Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas!” they yell, and whirl out of the workshop into the lights and snow beyond, sweeping Holly up as though she has always been one of them.

**10:00 AM Sled Races on Watterson Hill**

Holly thought nothing could compare to the sleigh ride, but that was before she went flying down Watterson Hill on an elf-made sled. It is terrifying, at first—the hill is dizzyingly tall, and no one really waits their turn, which means there are dozens of sleds racing around each other at the same time, trying not to flip over or run into each other or plow into a snowbank or pine tree. But the speed and the tinge of terror are exhilarating, and she skids to a stop at the base of the hill with ice in her hair and a laugh in her throat.

She doesn’t participate in the races, but they are thrilling enough just watching from the sidelines: expert racers, zooming down the hill at top speed, weaving around each other using maneuvers that avoid crashes by a hair’s breadth. At the end, Santa holds his golden trophy above his head in unabashed triumph, and the losers halfheartedly throw snowballs at his back.

**11:00 AM Scavenger Hunt  
_Please meet at the King Wenceslaus statue in the village._**

She finds five items out of fifty. Santa spends the whole event trailing after her, puffing on a pipe and saying _hot_ or _cold_. She decides five isn’t all that shabby, given that she hasn’t even been here for a full twenty-four hours, but that she’s definitely not partnering with Santa for any more games.

**11:30 AM – 1:30 PM Lunch served in the Workshop / Recommended Rest Interlude**

“This is the best part,” she says. “It always makes me choke up, with the music and the total validation.”

“I always liked this part. No one else in the whole city notices them, which is more accurate than the filmmakers probably knew.”

They chew in unison, smiling as Edward Asner’s Santa Claus soars into the sky above New York in a sleigh fueled by Christmas Spirit, a waving man in green hanging out of the back.

She waves a candy cane at the screen. “He’s a little more salty than you. If we’re going for accuracy.”

“Not my favorite rendition, but still one of the better ones.”

“Favorite one? Hands down—”

“Edmund Gwenn,” they say simultaneously.

He looks at her and she looks at him and they show each other approving smiles, then settle back in their chairs to enjoy the end of the movie.

 **1:00 – 4:00 PM Party Games**  
**Alternate: Crafts (see below)**  
**_All stations located in the Workshop, level 2._**

  * **Christmas Carol Pictionary**
  * **Candy Canes, a.k.a. Spoons**
  * **Name that Christmas Carol**
  * **Charades**



“Drosselmeyer!” she screams. “Wassail! Leg lamp! Jacob Marley! Gold frankincense and myrrh! Turkish Delight! Ten lords a-leaping! Boxing Day!”

“ _Time!_ ” shrieks an elf. She does a quick count and announces, “Thirty-two.”

The other charades team stares at Holly.

“Maybe I’ll keep you around after all,” she informs Santa, who tells her loftily that he will consider it.

 **1:00 – 4:00 PM Crafts**  
**_All stations located in the Workshop, level 3._ **

  * **Gingerbread House decorating**
  * **Cookie Decorating**
  * **Wreath Arrangement**
  * **Burlap, Five Ways**
  * **Mason Jars, 37 Ways**
  * **Felt and Papier-mâché Ornaments**



Holly watches him, fascinated, as she munches on the head of the peppermint-frosted gingerbread man she just finished decorating. He carefully lowers the glass part of the mason jar onto the lid, and suddenly the tiny plastic figurines inside are transformed from mere figurines to members of a miniature landscape. There is a range of pine trees artistically arranged on a bit of white foam next to a gleaming workshop, and a Santa Claus standing beside a sleigh which holds a tiny red bag, out of which peeps a brown-haired figure. Two reindeer are hitched to the sleigh, and glitter swirls around their feet. A mass of tiny stars attached to gossamer string hang down from the top.

“A memento,” he says, handing it to her. She carries it around as proudly as if she has won a prize at the county fair.

 **Contest Judging:**  
**2:00 Best Snowman**  
**2:15 Best Snowscape**  
**2:30 Best Gingerbread House**  
**2:45 Best Cottage Décor**

To her inexpert eye, every creation seems perfect. The snow sculptures look like life frozen in place; the gingerbread neighborhood contains so many tiny details that it really does seem like a three-inch tall elf might walk out of one of the tiny doors at any moment. She spends the better part of the hour wandering around in wonder, glad she is not on the judges panel.

**3:00 PM Reindeer Games**

Holly has almost gotten used to being here—she’s still thrilled, but she has been doing this for a few hours, now, and is beginning to adjust—when she sees the reindeer.

They parade out of the barn, rested and ready for relay races: Dasher, Cupid, Blitzen, Vixen, Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Comet. And Rudolph.

She tells Santa that the tears streaming from her eyes are from the wind. They are certainly not from the sight of a certain red nose whose existence finally knocks the truth fully into place—she is here, it is real, he is real, they are real. It is Christmas at the North Pole and all the stories are true.

**4:30 – 5:30 PM Mandatory Rest Interlude**

“Hi, sweetheart! Merry Christmas! Everyone say hi to Holly.”

A chorus in the background crackles “Merry Christmas, Holly!”

Tears prick her eyes. “Merry Christmas, everybody.”

“We miss you. We wish you were here.”

“Me too, Mom.”

“Are you doing anything fun today?”

“Yeah—yeah, I’m celebrating with friends.”

“Good. Well, we’ve got everybody here, just like usual. We just ate supper—Oh, your uncle Joe wants to talk to you.”

“Holly?” roars her uncle. “It snowing in hell yet, Holly?” He starts laughing his head off.

The phone gets passed from one family member to another, her little cousins rattling off a full inventory of every present they’ve received, her older ones asking about celebrity sightings even though she does not live anywhere near LA, her aunts giving her the full life updates she has already read in their Christmas cards, her uncles telling her everything they’ve eaten today.

Eventually she makes it back to her mother, who asks, “Did you open your presents yet? I’ll stay on the line while you do.”

For once Holly’s inability to keep her hands off an unopened gift has served her well. She feels only slightly guilty as she feigns surprise over the phone. Then her mother takes her turn, and Holly listens to the paper rip 3,800 miles away and aches, just a little bit, to be there.

“Love you, sweetie. Merry Christmas.”

“Love you, Mom. To the moon and back.”

**5:30 PM Caroling in the Village**

She likes to sing, but she has never liked caroling. She associates it with freezing temperatures and embarrassment. This is different. Caroling in a place where everyone loves and expects carolers is bound to be different. Their happy, raised voices warm the very air.

Every household they sing to joins the group, so by the time they get to the last cottage, all the villagers have been gathered back together. The Workshop doors open and Holly’s eyes are flooded with light.

**6:00 PM Christmas Feast**

Spiced roast goose! Baked Camembert with garlic and thyme! Cranberry and chestnut-stuffed roast turkey! Rosemary salted potatoes! Roast duck with spice rub and port gravy! Sweet rolls with brandy butter! Roasted squash soup! Grilled asparagus in lemon sauce! Maple and apricot glazed ham! Boeuf en croute! Parmesan-topped fried broccoli and cauliflower! Spinach salad with pears and pecans! Sunflower-studded zucchini bread! Apple cider-ginger-fig relish! Honey cake! Sweet potato and bourbon pie! Risalamande! Sugared almonds! Plum pudding! Mince pies! Seven-layer trifle! Marzipan! Gløgg! Mulled wine! Hot apple cider! Cinnamon-topped eggnog!

**8:00 PM Ice Dancing on Schulz Pond**

He looks skeptical. “Are you going to be able to do this, Miss California?”

She yanks at her laces. “I'll have you know I was born in the Midwest, Mr. Claus, and I have cousins who coerced me into playing little league hockey for three years. I know my way around a patch of ice.”

The ice is a dream to skate on—clear and flat, and her blades skim effortlessly across it. Blurs of elves whisk past. Fire pits are set up around the perimeter and dot the white surface at distant intervals.

Santa is unsettlingly spry for an old man. Holly spends the first ten minutes worrying he's going to fall and break a hip, until he performs a flawless double axel and she begrudgingly allows that his skills are probably Olympic level.

There is a jazz band set up by the bonfire at the edge of the pond, and the opening strains of the Christmas Waltz float across the ice. Santa, his blue eyes twinkling, holds his hands out to her, and she lays hers in his.

—And then they are off, whirling around the pond in looping circles, perfectly in sync with the music. The trumpets blare and the violins sing and the cheery jazz rendition is much faster than the classic that she knows and far more fun. Music courses through her body, practically moving her legs of their own volition. She is smiling so widely her face can hardly contain it.

When she needs to rest, she sits by one of the huge bonfires that have been built by the end of the pond, a mug of something hot cupped in her hands, and listens to the elves reminisce over Christmases past.

**9:00 PM Christmas Pageant in the Chapel**

Holly’s church attendance dropped off right around the time she moved to San Francisco, so it has been a while since she’s made her way through the Christmas story in its entirety. She isn’t particularly excited about sitting through a pageant. Childhood memories of a restless cast draped in bathrobes and entering the chorus at different times crowd her mind. She expects the classic Nativity scene, so is slightly taken aback to find the front of the chapel transformed into a Mayan village straight out of South America.

The point is obvious. It’s an event for any place and any time. Small details, things she never gave much thought to, are thrown into significance in this new setting.

Yes, she knows the basics. And yes, she knows the facts. And yet—she has to borrow Santa’s handkerchief at least twice, because she is hearing all the standard phrases with new ears. _His law is love and his gospel is peace_ , they sing, and she wants it with all her heart.

**10:00 PM Snowball Fight on the Lawn**

She steps outside the chapel doors and gasps. “You said there was no light here.”

Santa smiles. “Well, would you look at that.”

The elves explain that the northern lights do not appear every night, nor do they always display such a range of color as this. Perhaps the aurora knows it is Christmas and has decided to put on a show.

Whatever the reason, one thing is clear: these are perfect light conditions for a snowball fight, allowing everyone to range far outside the usual boundaries placed on them by artificial light.

The snow is perfect packing snow, and it bursts against targets’ coats in small satisfactory bombs of white powder. She lands two direct hits at the back of Santa’s head and deftly dodges his retaliation.

“I thought you always spend Christmas asleep,” she laughs at him, dashing past.

“What kind of host would that make me?” he retorts. “Besides, Oswald has it coming to him. He froze every single pair of my socks last April Fools.”

The battle wages for what feels like hours, with battle lines drawn and temporary fortresses built. It is easier to hold out when one’s clothes repel water and hold heat, Holly thinks, and makes a mental note to ask for elf-made gloves for all her cousins the next time she is in Arkansas for Christmas.

Finally, exhausted and happy, they collapse in the snow to watch the aurora dance above them. Stars glitter in the black sky like a distant accompaniment.

She tries to imagine what it was like that first year, a father so filled with excitement over the birth of his son that it burst out of heaven and overflowed into the sky; angels unable to contain themselves, singing and shouting like the sun had just risen for the first time after years of night; a flaming star shining so brightly it could not be ignored, flashing out like a mark on the map of the sky, telling everyone who saw it that something important was happening, right here. It was probably not unlike the view in front of her: the colors that ripple across the whole sky, filling the darkness with beauty.

She keeps sniffling, probably from the cold.

“To all a good night!” booms a voice, and the scattered crowd calls out wishes of good nights and Christmas happiness to each other. He settles into the snow beside her.

She cannot remember ever feeling this peaceful, this warm and still inside. She leans her head against her companion’s broad, warm arm. “Merry Christmas, Santa,” she whispers.

He says affectionately, “Merry Christmas, Holly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very jazzy[christmas waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEeq9AvzUkI)
> 
> my personal favorite santa is russian alec baldwin. just saying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [for those of you who like a mood-setter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P6zdKBJP1g0)

_Remember this when you’re ninety-two years old_ , Holly tells herself while rummaging through the kitchen cabinets for any semblance of coffee: _Santa Claus sings Celine Dion in the shower_. All she can find is peppermint mocha creamer (full sugar content); it will have to do.

She breathes on a windowpane to clear a patch of frost and peers out into the darkness, feeling as though she has landed on the moon. At least the workshop and stables are brightly lit. Maybe there is coffee there. Santa may be a morning person, but surely not every single elf starts their workday without an addictive stimulant. Grabbing a coat, she opens the door and nearly falls over Alphonse.

He bustles in. “I have the gag order ready. Sign here,” he tells Holly.

She shows him a sunny smile. “Good morning, Alphonse! That won’t be necessary. I’m not leaving yet. Question, however: where on the premises might one find caffeine in literally any digestible form?”

“Of course you’re leaving. Christmas is over.”

“ _He_ told me the reindeer need another day to recoup before they make such a grueling trip again. And frankly, I wholeheartedly agree.”

His eyes narrow. “Aren’t you employed? It’s nearly Monday. What about your job?”

“Who cares?” she cries. “He’s _Santa!_ I’m at the North Pole in Santa's cottage! Does anything matter more than this?”

“Your family and friends might think differently when they go to file the missing person report.”

“I'll send a few emails,” she says dismissively. “They'll understand.”

“So long as they _don't_ understand where you are and who you are with,” he warns.

“Worry not. I'll cook up something good.”

“Cookies?” says a fully-clothed Santa, coming through the kitchen doorway. “I'm partial to gingersnaps.”

Alphonse growls, “Coffee is in the workshop breakroom.” Holly beams at the elf and swings out the door.

*

Elves are everywhere: running to and fro, carrying supplies and finished projects, shouting to each other in megaphones across the atrium, busy at their work stations—testing, fitting, painting, theorizing, mending, packing. Holly stands with a steaming mug cupped in her hands next to Santa at a railing overlooking the Workshop.

She says, “You don’t even take a few days off?”

Santa looks amused. “Why would we stop? We love doing this. I tinker with toys even in my dreams.”

Holly watches a miniature train come to a stop in the middle of the floor, to be unloaded by efficient supply elves who deliver the contents to various stations across the shop. As it empties, another team carefully packs it with completed toys to be shuttled off into another tunnel.

She feels a little self-conscious—the elves keep giving her funny looks, which vanish almost immediately, but it makes her feel out of place: she is an irregular element in the day-to-day workflow. What would it be like, she wonders, to be a part of this place year-round? To know the elves and their areas of expertise, know the ins and outs of production, know the Workshop so well she could walk through it in the dark?

“Where’s _your_ worktable?” she asks Santa.

He leads her to a humble door on the third level: faded green, rather small considering his bulk, with a handle shaped like a reindeer head. She steps inside and smiles wide.

The room is huge, almost the size of his cottage alone, and decorated in the same style. The ceilings soar—because they have to contain massive constructions, some clearly toys, some still unidentifiable. The frame of a robotic dinosaur stands beneath a child-sized airplane. His worktable is a U-shaped table the size of a small room, covered in half-finished toys and blueprints and tools. Supply train tracks run across the floor.

One wall is almost entirely glass, looking out over the shining lights and colors of the town. Another wall contains a massive fireplace, currently burning with a fire that keeps changing colors on the flame edges. The third is all shelves, overflowing with prototypes and books and scrolls and supplies, and the fourth is covered in tacked-up sheets of designs that spill onto the neighboring walls. This is the room of an inventor.

Holly grins and hugs herself. She looks over at him. He’s watching her, a smile on his own face.

She laughs, throws her arms out. “I feel like I just walked into your brain! So—what are you working on now?”

He’s not only thought of things she could never imagine, he’s _made_ them: jet-powered rollerblades, a rapid-grow flower kit, glow in the dark tennis balls, a fully-stocked dollhouse that expands to three feet in height or folds to the size of a book, pens that draw in the air without a need for paper.

She puts on a pair of glasses that make it look like the floor is made of shifting sand. She nearly falls over twice before finding the button that changes the setting to lava. She squints at him where he sits at his desk, reading a stack of memos over the rim of his bifocals.

“Why do you wear your hat inside?”

“I’m Santa,” he says sternly, which is no answer at all, but she supposes every old man has his peculiarities.

She replaces the glasses and goes to the wall of designs. There are layers and layers of paper adorning it; some of these must be decades old. She stands on her tiptoes to look at a sketch of dolls modeled after Queen Victoria.

“You don’t do anything digitally? You’ve got more resources than Tony Stark and you still use paper and pencil?”

“Everything starts on paper.” He shrugs. “I can get ideas down better .”

“I know how that goes.”

“Oh?”

“I’m an artist. But you know that.”

A female voice on the loudspeaker above her head interrupts them: “Nick, you in there? Come over to the data room, will you?”

“Certainly, Nami. No emergency, I hope?”

“Not if you hustle.” The speaker clicks off.

“We usually have trouble during the days right after Christmas,” Santa tells Holly. “People try to get video footage of me or the sleigh. We had to strike a deal with NASA a few years ago to keep them quiet. You Americans can’t keep a secret to save your lives. The Canadian Space Agency has known about me for decades and never said anything.” He goes to a shelf and pulls open the wall. A hidden door, Holly realizes.

It leads into the circular room from her first night, the one that shows him the whole world. She wants to linger, but it seems this is just a shortcut: he crosses to another door and opens it, ushering her into what looks like a news station. Or a space station. Or the stock exchange. There are television monitors everywhere, all of them with a different image on the screen, and rows and rows of desks hold elves working busily at computers or bustling around with earpieces on and clipboards in hand.

“This is where we collect all of our data,” Santa tells her. “Worldwide. All of it comes here for analysis and storage. I could make double the toys needed, but Christmas wouldn’t happen without these guys.”

Holly says, “Why aren’t they in the last room with the big world screen? Everything together? Wouldn’t it be more efficient?”

“The Naughty & Nice lists are private,” he tells her primly.

“Nick!” says the voice from the loudspeaker, and an elf strides up, clipboard in hand.

“What seems to be the problem, Nami?”

“Those alien hunters in Bonnybridge,” she says darkly. “They finally figured it out. Come with me, please. You’ll have to wait here, I’m afraid,” she tells Holly, who is stepping forward to follow them.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Santa tells her. “Um, maybe don’t touch anything.”

“Would you like a cider?” says a voice by her hip. She looks down to find an elf offering her a cup.

“Oh, yes, thank you very much. I’m Holly.”

“I’m Aoife,” says the elfette. “I work on the toy stats team. Well, I’m in training. But someday!”

So even elves have interns. Holly smiles. “So, what are you monitoring up here?” she says, gesturing with her cup to the screens.

“A little bit of everything. We’ve got our weather guys, our Santa-watch team, this group to the left works up stats on toy reception for this year and projections on toy popularity for next Christmas, there’s a lot going on.” Aoife leads Holly to a row of desks near the middle of the room. “This is my team. Mauricio, Nthanda, Berlioz, and Steve.”

They greet her warmly, as ever. There are a few faces she recognizes from the day before. It isn’t long before they are chatting like old friends, with the elves asking all about her take on their rendition of Christmas and her thoughts on the workshop and the town and the décor. _Statisticians_ , she thinks, amused.

“How much have you gotten to see? Did you get a tour of the workshop?”

“Have you been to the chocolatier? That’s one to make sure you visit before you leave.”

“How long are you staying?”

Aoife says, “I wish you could stay forever!”

“Me too,” says Holly, a little uncertainly. “But living here, don’t you think it’s… really isolated?”

“Isolated!” Mauricio yelps. “Isolated! We’re more connected to the world than the world is. We have to know every new fad, every economic trend, every address change—EVERYTHING! And now there are so many satellites, the North Pole is the only place on the planet the airways are totally clear. We couldn’t move even if we wanted to.”

“Aside from the secrecy, you mean.”

He looks blank.

“The secrecy part. The staying hidden part.”

The elf shrugs. “You’d be amazed how many secret societies are hiding in plain sight. We’re a big operation, but there’s nothing we do here we couldn’t do behind some tinted glass in New York City—aside from the airwaves. So, frozen wasteland it is.”

“It’s not so bad,” Nthanda says shyly. “I don’t mind the cold, and it’s not always dark. And when it is, the borealis is pretty.”

“But you’re stuck here. You never get bored, or lonely?”

The elves look sideways at each other.

Before they can answer, she hears a familiar voice behind them—and there is her host, red and jolly and returned.

Holly rests her chin on her palm and smiles up at him. “Bet it’s nice to know that if this Santa gig ever falls through, you can just shift gears and go into broadcasting.”

He twinkles. “Always have a backup plan.”

“Nick, we’re sending down for lunch,” says Nami. “Want us to order for the two of you?”

“Well—” He looks at Holly. “Want to see the kitchen?”

“ _Do_ I!”

*

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and nutmeg and cardamom and ginger and peppermint and basil and oregano and coriander and thyme. There are dishes in various states of completion all over the counters and in racks on the shelves. The ovens open and close, letting quick flashes of light into the room. Pots simmer or boil on the stove. She’s willing to bet this is the sort of kitchen where the food tastes exactly the way it smells.

There are just as many elves working here as everywhere else, and just as busily, which she supposes makes sense, considering the fact that they are feeding the entire community. She wonders what it’s like around here in the days leading up to the Christmas feast.

The elves greet Santa so enthusiastically he turns bashful, and when they learn he is there for lunch, they start glowing as though they’ve been plugged into an electrical socket. When they discover Holly, who has followed her nose to an oven full of cinnamon rolls, they start a line of servings (samples, they call them) of every dish in the kitchen, until she is genuinely worried about the stretch capacity of her stomach. Santa eats his own samples and finishes any she can’t.

“I always thought I would go into something to do with food,” she says, tracing a pattern in a dish of glittering sugar sprinkles. “Being raised on a farm and all. My mom is an amazing baker.”

“And what do you do instead?”

She shoots him a look.

“Humor me,” he says. “My magic picks up generalities, not exact details. And I like to hear how people talk about themselves, even the things I already know.”

“I work at Pixar,” she says, breaking a trapezoid of peppermint bark in half. “Background art. My specialty is flowers.”

“Well then. Let’s see what you’re made of.” He nudges a plate of bare sugar cookies and a piping sleeve full of icing toward her.

Holly laughs. “Challenge accepted.”

In the fifteen minutes she spends decorating one cookie, Santa has decorated five and eaten four of them (he gave one to her). Finally she lifts her head and announces “Done!” and holds up a perfect 2D poinsettia. She’s rather pleased with the result: if she squints, it looks as though it’s blooming right there on the kitchen table.

The kitchen staff are all exclamation.

“You did that with _icing?_ ” squeaks an elf.

“It’s too pretty to eat,” says another. “It should be framed or something.”

Santa beams, proud as a parent. “It’s lovely! Remarkable! You’re quite talented. I should have you help me with my designs. Maybe the engineering team won’t get so mad if they can actually tell what they’re looking at.”

The elves are pulling chairs up to the table, passing plates and cookies around to begin their own round of decorating. “Do another one!” they tell her.

She hasn’t decorated cookies since the last time she went home for Christmas. Her heart twists—if only her mother could be here, see all this.

“You’ve got icing on your nose,” Santa says, passing her a towel.

She wipes her face and glances at him. “You’re sweating,” she remarks.

“It’s warm in this getup,” he replies, sounding unconcerned. She watches beads of sweat forge a trail down his temple.

“So lose the coat. Aren’t you off duty?”

“Uh,” he says. He fiddles absently with the belt buckle. “I will later.”

She gives him a look. He tries to return it, which makes her suspicious.

“What are you hiding?”

“Nothing. At all.” He is totally casual.

“You’re not allowed to lie, Santa Claus. You can’t go on your own Naughty List.”

“Shows what you know,” he retorts. “I’m not on either of them. I’m exempt.”

“Tell me what is going on.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“I grew up on a working ranch in the middle of hickville Arkansas. I can handle whatever you dish out.”

He sighs, casts her a look of suffering, and starts to unbutton the red coat. The elves in the kitchen stop what they are doing and watch with wide eyes. He slides the coat off his shoulders.

What happens next is like watching the collapse of a dream. Gone is the coat—and gone are the extra 100 pounds of weight he carries around under it. Gone is the hat—and gone is the beard, gone is the white hair, gone are the riotous old-man eyebrows. Gone are the gloves—and gone are the years of labor that line his face, gone are the age spots and the slight stoop of his back, until finally he stands there in nothing but his suspenders and undershirt and red pants and heavy black boots, like a blue-eyed fireman getting ready to pose for a calendar.

She is aghast. “It _is_ a lie. You’re just a dad in a costume.”

“No,” he says, “I’m Santa Claus. And for one day of the year, that’s what I look like. For the other three hundred and sixty-odd, I look like this.”

“You have muscles,” she says. She is near tears. “You have brown hair. You’re _thirty_!”

“I can’t carry that bag around otherwise. Do you know what that thing weighs? And no man over eighty could stay awake all night and manage to drive himself back to the right pole.”

“Where’s your belly laugh? Where’s your beard?”

“The beard itches,” he says apologetically. “I’ll skip shaving tomorrow if it will make you feel better. And I still have the laugh. Always have, always will.”

Still, it takes three gingerbread men and a full mug of cinnamon eggnog for the betrayed look to leave her eyes. They sit in ornamental chairs next to the baker’s fireplace, a blanket around Holly’s shoulders. She stares at him over the rim of her mug.

“Please stop looking at me like that.”

“ _Are_ you thirty?”

He snorts. “I’m immortal.”

“But are you _thirty_.”

“I am one thousand, seven hundred and forty-six years old.”

“But how… Then why…” She gestures vaguely at him.

He smiles, and it is a relief to note he still has rosy cheeks, still has eyes that twinkle. “Magic,” he says simply. “I can age at whatever rate I choose. And, more importantly, de-age. The magic is woven into my Christmas attire. I can do it without them, but using them is a far faster process”

“So it’s not like the fountain of youth? Or a phoenix? You don’t die and then you’re reborn? You don’t regenerate?”

“I’m not a science fiction character,” he says mildly. “It’s always been me. Always been this body.”

“You just _change_. At will.”

“Bingo.”

“Have you always been able to?”

“Always. But it took me a while to become Santa Claus, and by the time I had figured out I needed a younger body to do my job, I had let myself age quite a bit. So Santa has always been the same person, but that person doesn’t always look like the Santa the world has come to know and love, hence the coat and hat and everything else.”

Suddenly she realizes—the elves haven’t been giving her strange looks; the looks have been directed at _him_ , then cleared in understanding once they saw her. Because they knew the suit should have vanished by now. And they knew she wasn’t supposed to know Santa was a sham.

“Thirty,” she whispers mournfully.

“I’m really not.”

“Whatever you say, Santa.”

“Please call me Nick.”

This only serves to make her eyes well up again, and he hastily suggests they go up to the workroom and watch the toy tinkers, wouldn’t that be nice?

Her blanket cape drags on the floor behind her. The heads of the tinkering elves are bent over various pieces of remote control apparatus.

“What are they working on?”

“Next year’s line. Would you like to design one of the flying fish?” This is his peace offering for looking thirty.

Her talents lie with icing and charades and stop there, she decides. She gets halfway through her fish before realizing a third of the pieces are upside down. She sets it to the side and spends the rest of the time watching him construct his own perfect model. She’s on her second Irish coffee and feeling a little less disillusioned.

She says, “So you can, then. Die.”

“Can and will. Everyone dies.”

“But—what will we do?”

“Do?”

“What would happen? What will the world do without Santa Claus?”

“You’ll carry on, I suppose. The world did fine without me for quite a while; I’m sure it will readjust.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she says firmly. “You’re—you’re permanent now. You’re a constant. You may live all the way up here and only show up once a year, but you’re part of us.”

“That’s lovely to hear. Really, it warms me to the bottom of my heart. I feel the same way about all of you. However, I don’t think I’m as crucial as you’ve been led to believe. I didn’t create the spirit of Christmas, and it would take a lot more than my absence for all of you to lose it.”

“But isn’t that the plot of almost every worthwhile Christmas movie? Something might take down Santa? Protect him at all costs.”

“At present, the world is in as much danger of losing Santa as it is of a bevy of kaiju bursting out of the ocean bed. I like that line about protection, though, I’m going to use that one on Alphonse and really let him worry over it.” His eyes are twinkling.

“Okay, but what would _happen?_ If something did take you out of the picture, expected or otherwise.”

“My hope has always been to pass on the mantle.”

“What, like, to an heir?”

“That’s the idea.”

“One of the elves?”

He ho-ho-hos very quietly. “All of them have made it abundantly clear they have no interest in the position. They nearly went on strike at the mention of it.”

“So—a human heir?”

“Well, it won’t be a reindeer. Or a snowman.” He chuckles.

“And how is that supposed to work, exactly? Immaculate conception? It’s not like there are any—Oh my gosh. Are you online dating?”

“Of course not. Living in the North Pole is not exactly conducive to going to dinner and a movie.”

“How else are you going to get it on, Nick? You have to make a baby Nick or Nicole to take on your mantle!”

“Or,” he looks harassed, “I could train someone completely unrelated to me to do it.”

“Ah. Batman and Robin. I see. I don’t like it.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It has to be you! It has. To be. _You_.”

“I will take that into account when I retire in four hundred years. Now, what do you say we give this baby a test drive?” He holds up the fish.

Physically Santa may be thirty or he may be one thousand, seven hundred and forty-six, but when push comes to shove he’s really no older than eight, is the conclusion she comes to within two minutes. He sends the fish skimming over the heads of the workers (alarming some; most don’t bat an eyelash) and his cackling laughter does not quite classify as a ho-ho-ho. He manages to make the fish spin in five perfect loops in a row, and turns to her with shining eyes and yells, “Did you _see_ that?”

It’s going to take a while to get used to the different body. But when all is said and done, it’s not the clothes that make the man, after all. The enthusiasm is the same; the heart is the same.

She thinks, unbidden, for the hundredth time: _I don’t want to leave._

*

Post-supper, Holly is comfortably ensconced in a game of Pandemic with the elves, and Santa—Nick—is chatting genially with his reindeer handlers about the results of this year’s reindeer games, when Alphonse enters the atrium with a megaphone set to volume 10.

He announces dramatically, “A storm system is sweeping up from the south.” He points at Holly. Her smile dims.

She climbs the beautiful circular staircase to the stretch of railing where Nick now waits beside the elf, who is pacing within a three-foot expanse.

She is wretched. “You’re saying I have to leave.”

Alphonse is a small red blur of fury. “I’m _saying_ you got exactly what you wanted. The reindeer can’t travel in this, and even when it has cleared, we don’t fly them until the temperatures are safe enough to survive in the event of a crash. Christmas is the exception, and let me tell you, it is an _incredibly_ inconveniently scheduled holiday. I’ve tried repeatedly to have it moved but no one will lis—”

“Al, what does this mean?” Nick interrupts. “How long will she be trapped here?”

“That’s what I’m _telling_ you. There’s no way of knowing. When the ice storm clears out, we can evaluate. Until then, no one is going anywhere.” He crumples up the gag order and hurls it across the room.

“Well, that settles that,” Nick says.

Holly has lit up like a string of Christmas lights. Her smile fills her whole face. The other two watch her bound back down the stairs to rejoin the group circled around the board beside the Christmas tree.

“This is a terrible idea,” Alphonse tells his boss.

“But she’s so happy.”

“She won’t be for long,” replies the doomsday elf. “Don’t get attached.”


End file.
